My Life as a Man

by Frederic Lindsay

  Elbows either side of the phone, she was leaning forward resting her chin and mouth against folded hands. The position might have made it seem she was staring into the garden, but she was so intent I doubted if she was aware of anything but her own thoughts. Could she have been phoning? Was there anyone she could turn to for help?

  At Norman’s voice sounding through the hall, she turned her head and saw me.

  Before she could say anything, Norman called behind me, ‘Get out of there. Have you touched anything?’

  As I turned, he saw her and lost interest in me. ‘I’ve been all over the house looking for you,’ he cried.

  ‘I was here.’

  ‘If you heard me, you should have called, let me know where you were hiding. What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’

  I didn’t like the way he spoke to her, without any respect at all.

  ‘Bernard isn’t here, Norman,’ she said. Not ‘My husband isn’t here, so what are you doing walking into my house, you fat bastard?’

  He gaped at her. ‘Of course he isn’t.’ He looked at me. ‘This is private. Wait through there. Out in the hall.’

  When I hesitated, he reached for my arm.

  ‘Don’t fucking touch me,’ I said. And then, like a fool, I said to her, ‘Why do you let him talk to you like that?’ As if it was any of my business.

  She rubbed her forehead in a gesture between distress and trying to think. ‘You shouldn’t have come back. I want you to go.’

  ‘Not till I’m sure you’re all right.’

  ‘I will be. Please.’ She gestured as if pushing me away. ‘I don’t know why you’re here.’

  ‘I’ve been to the factory. I wanted to tell your husband you weren’t to blame. But he wasn’t there.’

  She stared at me in fright. ‘Why would you do that?’

  At the question, spoken with a kind of bewilderment, Norman lost patience. ‘Oh, Christ!’ he exclaimed.

  As he blundered towards the desk, I shouted, ‘Don’t touch her!’

  The noise of it swung him round. ‘What? Don’t what? Me?’

  ‘Just don’t touch her!’

  ‘Oh, God!’ he said. Unbelievable, he meant, and just as quickly as that he was in control of himself again. To me he said, ‘I don’t know what kind of tinker camp you came out of, but this is a civilised house with civilised people in it.’ To her, with a big gusty sigh, he complained softly and reasonably, ‘How could he get such nonsense into his head?’ And when she didn’t answer at once, ‘What on earth have you been saying to him?’

  She was looking down at a bowl with flowers to the side of the desk, and didn’t raise her head. The flowers were bent over with brown petals. ‘Poor things,’ she said. ‘They’ve been neglected.’

  ‘Flowers?’ And with the word he looked at me – Jesus, man to man – in astonishment at her stupidity. ‘Never mind bloody flowers. Where’s the key of the garage?’

  ‘She didn’t have to say anything to me,’ I told him. ‘Don’t you think everybody in the factory knows? He makes her sit outside all day. What kind of bastard would do that?’

  What upset me was that he didn’t show any anger now, just bit his lip and shook his head as it might be pityingly. ‘Oh, Eileen,’ he said, ‘Eileen. Let’s get rid of this boy. Start by telling him no one’s ever – my brother would never – lay a finger on you. Isn’t that true?’

  ‘If she said that, I wouldn’t believe her.’ Pushing in before she could say a word, not letting her speak for herself. Taking my cue from him, you could say; and so no better than he was.

  ‘You know nothing about her,’ he said. ‘You don’t know about Alice.’

  ‘He’s talking about my dead baby,’ Mrs Morton said.

  He looked surprised, perhaps because she’d spoken quietly, without any show of emotion. Without having it explained to me, I understood it hadn’t been like that with her before. Perhaps, altogether apart from her tone, he had never heard her simply say what had happened until that moment, acknowledge her child’s death in that way, as a fact like every other.

  She swept up the dry leaves round the bowl and poured them out of her hand on to the dusty earth.

  ‘When she died I was ill,’ she said quietly, ‘and after that things were different.’

  ‘What are you explaining to him for?’ he asked, although he had started it. ‘Family business,’ he told me. ‘You shouldn’t even be here.’

  It was hard to find an argument against that. While I was trying to think of one, Mrs Morton said, ‘The car isn’t in the garage.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You asked for the key of the garage. I thought you wanted the car for some reason.’

  ‘If it’s not in the garage—’

  ‘It broke down.’ She glanced at me. ‘I took it to the shops. I had to get a taxi home.’

  ‘Broke down where? My God, you left it in the street?’

  ‘No. It’s in Howie’s. I phoned them when I got home and they sent a tow truck to fetch it. They’ll check it over and let Bernard know what’s wrong.’

  ‘Howie’s? The one in Morris Street?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  And at once he wanted to leave. He wasn’t in such a hurry, though, that he didn’t want me out of there first. It was a shock to him when Mrs Morton said no, she would phone for a taxi to take me home. Later on it would occur to me that was a brave thing for her to do. I mean that I thought in the way her life had shaped itself in that house, there must have been a mass of things she wasn’t allowed to do, which was a disgusting thought and one I’d rather not have had. There are thoughts like that; they come from nowhere and breed in your head like maggots in the dark if you let them. He dithered and blustered, but she phoned anyway.

  ‘Ten minutes,’ she said putting the phone down.

  I thought he’d wait, but he was off almost at once.

  She went through to the front room and watched at the window. As I followed her, I heard his car start up. After a moment, she turned and said, ‘We’d better get out of here before he gets back.’

  ‘Back from where?’

  ‘Howie’s. Didn’t you have the impression that’s where he was going?’

  ‘What makes you think he’ll come back?’

  ‘Because the car isn’t in Howie’s,’ she said. ‘I parked it in the lane at the back of the house.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  She had to explain it to me: that she hadn’t phoned a taxi, but had pressed numbers at random and spoken over the voice of a woman who, after telling her twice she’d a wrong number, asked if she was deaf and hung up.

  ‘I can find the scheme,’ she said, ‘but once we’re there you’ll have to guide me to the house.’

  She was taking me home, that’s what she called it, meaning the house Alec Turner lived in with his new girlfriend. Before I could ask why, she told me about the phone call she’d taken just before Norman and I arrived at the house. ‘Whoever it was didn’t know your name,’ she said, and broke off.

  ‘Harry Glass,’ I said.

  If she’d given her name in return, I could have said, ‘Pleased to meet you’; except that I already knew her name and hadn’t anything to be pleased about.

  ‘Or where you lived,’ she said. ‘That’s what he was phoning to find out.’

  The man had called just after I left, wanting to speak to Bernard. As soon, however, as he’d realised who she was, he started asking what had happened to her and where had she been.

  ‘It must be somebody from the factory,’ I said. ‘The whole place seems to know about yesterday.’

  She frowned doubtfully. ‘Anyone from the factory would have asked for Bernard differently. There wasn’t any respect. And, apart from that, I’ve never heard a voice like that before, such a strange voice.’

  ‘Strange?’

  She hesitated. ‘A . . . A kind of rough whisper.’

  ‘Maybe he had a cold.’

  She gave me a look and, no,
I didn’t think so, either. Something about that voice had frightened her, so much so that she’d hidden the car in the lane at the back of the house because she’d told him I’d driven off in it after taking her home.

  Fuck’s sake.

  ‘Why did you do that? What was the point of saying that to him? That was a lie.’ I heard myself babbling and made the effort to stop.

  ‘He asked if the car was here,’ she said. ‘Why would he ask that? I couldn’t make sense of it, but I didn’t want him coming to the house. And then, in case he came anyway, I hid it in the lane.’

  There had been no explicit threats, only the persistence of the questioning, but something in the voice had made her afraid. Yet, despite being frightened, now she wanted to take me home. Bad conscience, I suppose, but it was brave of her. It was maybe part of the change that had made her defy Norman back there in the house, something I’d have laid a bet she wouldn’t have done before I’d kidnapped her and ruined her life. The jury had to be out on how badly.

  As for me, I sat there and was too ashamed to tell her we were going to a place I’d been thrown out of and where there was no one I cared about or who cared for me. I couldn’t do it, and while we went out of Giffnock and across town until we came to the tenements of Maryhill, and then up past Springburn and out into the familiar wasteland of pebble-dash houses, I drifted into a plan. I’d let her take me home and once she’d driven off I’d walk away. Where to, God alone knew, but leave the hard questions for later. One good thing: I wasn’t worried about her mystery man on the phone. After all, he didn’t know where I lived; and how could he get my address, when he didn’t even know my name?

  We drove past the row of half a dozen shops opposite the scrubland where legend had it they planned to put a cinema some day; and up the hill to arrive at last outside the Hairy Bastard’s mansion – easily recognisable by the size of the weeds in the side garden.

  Mrs Morton sat looking at it for a while. ‘This is where you live?’ she asked at last.

  ‘The garden looked better when my father was here,’ I said. My father, of course, had never even seen the place. It seemed I couldn’t stop telling lies to her.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I realised she thought he was dead. ‘Do you live here with your mother?’

  ‘You don’t want to hear my life story.’ I opened the door. ‘Thanks for the lift.’

  I got out – and then thought that, all things considered, she’d been pretty decent, and tried to find something better to say as a farewell, but being a slow thinker was still bent over looking in at her when the wailing started. It came from inside the house and it lasted for only a moment, but I felt the hairs go up on the back of my neck.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ Mrs Morton said. Next moment she was out of the car. I followed her up the path and watched as she rang the bell, waited, and rang again. I gathered her idea was that we should check if anything was wrong.

  I still had my key and unfortunately he hadn’t changed the lock. Maybe he was saving that for when he went off on holiday, in case I came back and held a trash party for a few hundred guests.

  In the hall it was so quiet I could hear Mrs Morton behind me panting softly as if she’d been running. Listening to her, it came clear in my mind how bad an idea it had been to borrow Mr Bernard’s wife. Never mind the mystery man who had phoned her, Mr Morton frightened me. It was a bit late to realise that, but as I said I’m a slow thinker.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Any higher and I’d have been squeaking like a bat.

  Nothing happened for all of half a minute and then the phone rang.

  I reached out and picked it up without thinking. I’d lived there long enough, I didn’t have to look. The Hairy Bastard had put it in. I knew where we kept the phone.

  ‘Alec?’ I said.

  But it wasn’t him.

  A woman’s voice asked, ‘Is that Harry Glass?’

  Fighting down an instinct to deny it, I grunted.

  ‘This is Theresa. You took Mr Bernard’s car key off my desk. It was you, wasn’t it?’ I didn’t answer. When she got tired of waiting, she asked, ‘Are you still there?’ I cleared my throat. ‘You hadn’t any right to do that. I got into terrible trouble.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said.

  There was a pause. Mrs Morton was in front of me, trying to catch my eye. I looked away.

  The voice in my ear said, ‘I’m sorry, too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have given him your name and address. I’ve been worrying about it all morning. But Mr Bernard wasn’t there and he didn’t want to speak to Mr Norman. So I got out your form and told him, but I shouldn’t have.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Who was it?’

  ‘A friend of Mr Bernard’s – that’s all he said. “It’s about the boy who took the car,” he said. “I’m a friend of Bernard’s.” ’

  ‘You gave him my name and—’

  ‘I knew it was wrong. Giving away company information, I’m trained not to do that.’ Her voice was thin and apologetic. I could hardly fit it to the arrogant girl behind the reception desk at the factory.

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘That’s the thing, it was over the phone. I don’t understand how I could have been bullied by a voice on the phone. That’s why I had to tell you. Just in case he . . . I’ve never done anything like that before. I am sorry.’

  Behind Mrs Morton, the door of the front room was opening stealthily, an inch at a time. Nothing happened for all of half a minute and then a face came round the edge of the door. The first thing I saw was orange hair, a spike at a time, and then half of a wee pale face with eyes like raisins pissed into a snow bank.

  At this point, Mrs Morton, registering something was wrong, turned round. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You must be Harry’s sister.’

  It was kind of disgusting to realise the Hairy Bastard’s new true love was about sixteen. But before I could ask her if she’d a home to go to, or was it so bad even cohabiting with a monkey was preferable, she took an unexpected initiative by calling me a cunt.

  This took me aback. I was reminded of a guy at school who’d passed a crowd of Celtic supporters chanting, ‘We are thu pee-pul,’ and thought, not in anything but honest surprise – he being a follower of the late King Billy of Orange: No, you’ve got that wrong, we are. Which took me back to wee Spiky Head – the cunt of the first part, as it were.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve ever met,’ I said, and at the response in my ear put the phone down.

  ‘Aye, but I know you. You’re Harry Glass.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got that right.’

  ‘It’s because of you he’s in hospital.’

  ‘Who? Alec? Alec’s in hospital?’

  ‘Smashed up he is.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ And in a funny way I was; I’ve always had a soft spot for animals. ‘Did he get run over?’

  ‘He got a battering. Because of you, ya—’

  ‘Right, I heard you the first time. But you’ve got it wrong. Nothing to do with me.’

  ‘It was you they came to the door asking for.’

  ‘If he told you that, he was kidding you.’ That’s what I wanted to believe. After all, nobody liked Alec Turner. Chances were, he’d owed somebody money, or he’d got into a stupid argument, or else he’d been so pissed he’d taken a header down a flight of stairs. It was even possible wee Spiky Head had a couple of big brothers who’d caught up with him.

  ‘I heard them myself when they came to the door. He opened it and the guy said, “Where’s Harry?” and Alec said, “How the fuck would I know?” and next thing two of them were battering him the length of the lobby. They were just pure mental.’

  I didn’t decide to panic, it just happened. Questions steamed around in my head. I got one out. ‘What else did they say?’

  ‘How would I know? They took him through there and then the big one came out and picked me up and took me through and dropped me on the bed. I thought . . . you know. But he
said, “Not a move out of you,” and he put the blankets over my head. I lay there for ages and then the front door banged shut. Even then I lay for a while. I was awful frightened. Then I heard Alec groaning. I got out from under the blanket and he was trying to crawl in the door.’

  ‘What did he say? Did he tell you what it was about?’

  ‘He couldn’t talk.’

  I felt sick.

  ‘I just sat beside him crying. Then I saw Mrs Fleming going to the shops and I shouted her. It was her sent for the police. I told them about you, they’ll be looking for you. They’re not long away.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I’ve never liked hospitals much. One time my father was sick and my mother and I visited him; this would be when I was six or seven. He was in for about five weeks and we went two or three times a week. Saturday or Sunday was fine, because the tinkers didn’t bother us at the weekend, I can’t remember why, maybe because there were more folk visiting then. But through the week we’d get off the bus and we had to walk up this road past a field where there was a bunch of tinks camped. They’d come out and ask for cigarettes and once they threw stones at us. Maybe through the week we got a different bus. That would be it: from the shop where she worked. Anyway, six years old, I felt as if I should protect her. We were always glad to get past.

  The neighbour, Mrs Fleming, had told me not only the hospital but that Alec Turner was in intensive care. One of the world’s Samaritans, she’d rung to see how he was. ‘The nurse said, holding his own.’

  He looked as if he’d been dropped off a roof. His nose was taped and when I bent close what came out was this little voice full of spittle and slush and a whistle of broken teeth: ‘What have you done?’

  I’d expected him to curse me. Coming to the side of the bed, I’d been conscious of his one showing eye fixed on me like an evil spell.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘They wouldn’t believe I didn’t know where you were. “I’m not his fucking father,” I told them. But they just kept on. They thought I was protecting you.’